ELIZABETH by Edgar Allan Poe

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit

(Logic and common usage so commanding)

In thy own book that first thy name be writ,

Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
(Called anything, its meaning is the same)
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

(Zeno, a philosopher who said "that one's own name should never appear in one's own book")

Meddling in Mother's Garden

A stick in the mud.

Critters come to cuddle,

meddle in grubs,

their feet in the hollow.

That poor old sap

spilling its drink

on old folks

in petticoats --

Lizards licking sheep 

in anger...

You know,

we were taught to be strangers.

I told you, behave;

Who are we?

Animals among the trees

taking drinks from our cups

that double as voice?

Never a day we not be at rest -

where we not love our cousin, nature.

Where we not be free as bark on trees.

This day never come,

but it be meant to.

A Story of Love

I was thinking of you, darling.

Concocting a word, picture, story, a shape.

Something that in one handful, would tell you how much you mean to me.

But the word never comes,

the picture never starts,

and the story shapes up to be perfectly, you and I.

& I stand, staring at the blank page;

for cities of wishes and kind words could be spilled from these lips for days

but can never fit our storybook here on this flat blank page.

For, you see, you mean too much

for a word or a photo to complete

everything you mean to me,

everything we will grow to be.

Nothing could ever speak enough

so today, I will leave you with love.

A Not-So-Strange Heart

You are... everything.
You are mountains I make of fragile thoughts & things.
Crammed them together with hot-glue & string.
Tied with a knot, a kiss, & a ring.
A mountain of love, for you.

Does Your Love Hide?

Do you watch me sleep?
Does your love
hide under a rug?

When I'm singing
do you hear me,
as I flit
along the gardens
of, lonely too,
the silver bells?

The Free World's Sweet Lies

Cold. I am broken pieces of you.

Solidity never modified to feel

anything more than that which is.

I long to be what is not.

So tender and chilled, my hearts beat.

I have waited forever for the practicality 

of nothing.

The reality that I am so much less

than what I had imagined,

than what is real.

I strangle each confession, believing it.

Tasting the succulents I am told are sweet.

Biting into them to find molded over

remnants of what may once have been

so very saccharine.

Oh, I wish to be

all I may be;

Every, that you are not of.

& let the seedlings sprout inside my spirit;

To grow something more wondrous than I.

Harvesting it for you, 

so you may feed, 

lapping the sugar

I have told you is sweet.

Until it is Gone

I was never holding on
to any piece of dirt
so when the grass crawled between my fingers
I let go of the Earth
& I found my body floating
through lanes of later days
clasping on to the little left
blades flying through air waves

I took their beings tightly
squeezing out the green
until they were nothing but
the most untidy strings
so with their bodies falling
as so did the happy from my eyes
and in landing on pure nothing
I too kissed the saddened sky.

Sorry I have left you
although I not know why
I held you as if you were nothing
until no more of you could I find
and I want to tell you this day
that if ever you give to holy light
I will follow you to salvation
loving your flesh with all my might.

Blood-Red Riding Hood

Where are you Going...

Where have you gone?

Did I utter a spell,

did I do something wrong?

Pale eyes turn to gold
as they trickle down blood;
& we call her as such,
for it covers the hood...

Blood red as the rider.
She steals by night,
taking the hearts
of the pure ones.

Holding their beating
to the moon, just so high
that the weak are left
fearful and bleeding.

I never thought this true
Til she came after you...
She stole it.. well, in a heart beat.
& I find it quite clever
that she may be here whenever
Even when the wolf not be...